


Prodigal

by Silence89



Category: Leverage, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Alec Hardison is a very good friend, Angst, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hardison and Eliot friendship, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silence89/pseuds/Silence89
Summary: “Hey, Pop,” Eliot says, stepping forward.Jake Stone and Eliot Spencer are identical twins, both living in Portland. It's probably just a matter of time until they meet. But then again, Eliot travels a lot for work.





	Prodigal

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime in the back half of Season 5.

“Hardison, where are we on the clear-out?” Nate barks, rubbing his forehead.

“Uh, I think you meant ‘Hello, Hardison, why thank you, I do appreciate how hard you worked to set up this ridiculously complicated scheme, and I completely understand that some things are beyond even your control.’”

“Hardison.”

"Don't look at me, Nate. I had it all set, but the dude hasn’t been at work. Can't clear the guy out if I can't find him.”

“Well, find him, Hardison,” Eliot yells from the bathroom. “The alligator's a one-day rental.”

“And I’m not wearing this costume twice,” Sophie’s voice chimes in on the comms. “You know how I feel about glitter.”

“We’re not allowed to say the G-word,” Parker chides her, with a wary glance in Eliot’s direction.

“Yeah, yeah, tracking his phone now. I think we’re clear, guys. He’s all the way out in someplace called Hull.”

“You _think_ we’re clear or we’re clear?” Sophie pushes. “Because I think I have glitter in my—”

“Be sure, Hardison,” Nate jumps in, like Hardison’s been goofing off all day instead of running all over Oklahoma City risking his skin to rent exotic wildlife. (He _hates_ this plan.) “We only have one shot at this. If Isaac Stone shows up while Sophie’s setting the hook, we won’t have Rios in position in time for the dance competition.”

Which probably wasn’t even true. Sophie’s worked around bigger obstacles than an appointment snafu. It’s the humidity here. It’s putting everyone on edge. Even Nate’s hair’s looking…poodle-like, and Sophie’s been hogging the bathroom since they checked in. Hardison’s taken two showers today already, and he’s looking forward to a third.

“He’s… Hang on, I’m cross-referencing. He’s at an OTB in Hull, people. I don’t think he’s going to show for his meeting anyway.”

“Not good enough,” Nate says. “You’ll have to get out there and make sure of it.”

“I’m going with him,” Eliot says, carefully closing the bathroom door behind him. “Make sure he doesn’t screw it up.”

“Eliot, it’s not a two-man job. I need you here for the—”

“Parker can handle the damn gator,” Eliot growls.

Hardison’s about to point out what a very bad idea that is, but Eliot’s already heading out the door. No time for that shower, apparently. Although with Sophie in one suite and the gator in the other, it probably wasn’t in the cards anyway.

“Go,” Nate says, waving his hand irritably. “Get some fresh air. Hang out and watch the races, whatever. It’s not like we’re _busy_ here.”

Like the two of them are slacking off, slipping out for some fun bro times. It’s a nice thought, except Eliot’s been in a foul mood for days, and Hardison’s tried, okay? But Eliot’s shut down Hardison’s every attempt to help him remove the stick from his ass, up to and including turning down a night at a bar with a mechanical bull.

Putting glitter in Eliot’s hair conditioner was a bridge too far; message received.

Loud and clear.

Unlike Eliot. The man hasn’t said a word since they got in the van, and with that cap on and the hair slipping forward like it is, it’s hard to get a good look at his face.

Still, the mood in the van isn’t exactly subtle; Eliot emotes like it’s a second language. Or fifth or 10th language, whatever. Point is, Eliot doesn’t have to talk for Hardison to get the idea that this little excursion is not intended as an olive branch. More like further punishment, because Eliot’s working up to a Level 5 brood. Maybe even a Level 6.

“You good?”

Eliot grunts, which is probably supposed to sound like a yes but definitely isn’t one.

Hardison should probably take the opportunity to grovel.

Or not. “It washed right out, Eliot.”

Hardison’s getting a little sick of being Eliot’s metaphorical punching bag (although he is still a bit relieved that Eliot’s keeping the punching metaphorical). But it did wash out, or brush out, or get picked out by Parker. Eventually. Hardison’s apologized enough. He turns on the radio.

“What’s Isaac Stone doing with the mark?” Eliot asks. “Is he another victim? Or is he in on it?”

“Uh. Neither, I think. He’s nobody. We just stole his appointment.”

Eliot should know this. He hadn’t been too busy sulking to listen to the plan. Hell, he’d been right there critiquing it this whole time.

“Appointment for what, though?”

“What?” Hardison looks at Eliot. “Does it matter?”

Eliot shrugs and signals for the lane change half a second before the GPS tells him to. “Are we hurting him, clearing him out like this?”

“Making him miss a business meeting with a guy like Rios? We’re doing him a favor.”

Eliot nods to himself, eyes on the road. “What was the meeting, though?”

“I don’t know, man. It’s not like it matters. It’s just a clear-out; we don’t need the guy’s life story.”

Eliot grunts again. It’s not an argumentative grunt, but it’s…off. Hardison pulls out his tablet and starts digging.

“Stone runs a little pipeline company—Stone Family Rigging and Pipeline. Been around for a couple generations now, but they ain’t doing too good lately. Racked up a bunch of fines for safety violations, misfiled permits, even a Department of Labor complaint about shorting overtime, all in the last year. It’s lost them some contracts. And lucky me, someone computerized the company finances, but they didn’t know thing one about security protocols. This is an open book. If Isaac Stone’s the one who set this up, he ought to be more careful; from what I got here, looks like he’s been using the company for petty cash lately, and he’s burning through it. I can’t be sure without more digging, but from what I have here, looks like Stone’s trying to sell Rios some excavators under the table—he needs a couple hundred grand just for operating costs.”

He pauses, not that Eliot will be impressed with Hardison’s rapid-fire sleuthing. Hell, Eliot probably thinks Hardison has some kind of bad-guy Wikipedia loaded on the tablet. Eliot doesn’t even give him a nod of acknowledgement, which feels rude.

“I wonder what Rios wants excavators for?” Hardison asks, just to break the silence. “Probably so he can poison more kids with leaky pipes. This guy, I swear. I hope Parker lets the damn gator get a bite in.”

“Those are expensive,” Eliot says slowly.

“Gators? You ain’t kidding. I had no idea. Hell, we could’ve just flown to Florida and caught our own for less hassle. You know you can eat them there? Right in the airport restaurant.”

“Excavators.”

“Let me guess, you slept with an oil rigger? Or are you making your Christmas list?”

“It’s _July_ , Hardison.” And there it is, the full Eliot-load of scorn and annoyance, back in full force. Which highlights the fact that Hardison’s been hearing something else in Eliot’s voice since he got in the van.

He waits for Eliot to tell him what’s wrong, but Eliot’s quiet. He’s drumming his fingers on the wheel and rubbing his neck like it hurts, and maybe that’s really all this is. Eliot’s always cranky (crankier) when his joints ache, Hardison’s noticed. Hell, he’s made a spreadsheet: After a year or so of collecting data, he can predict rain with 67 percent accuracy just off of Eliot’s snippiness. Maybe he should add the dew point to his stats, boost the percentage, and make a killing as a forecaster.

Eliot tunes the radio to a country station and turns it up.

It’s dusk when they get to the bar. It should be cooling off, sometime soon, but no, the humidity here holds the heat in the air for hours. All dusk means is the bugs will be out, probably ignoring Eliot and zeroing in on Hardison like his veins are full of orange soda, which, come to think of it, they might be.

“What’s the plan?” Eliot asks, and there’s that tone again. Tension where there should be annoyance.

“Uh.” Hardison thinks about it. The plan had _been_ to call the man at work and send him on a wild goose chase to deal with a permit problem, but Hardison doubts that’s going to work on a man who just spent his supposed workday drinking and betting on horses at a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. “The Two Stooges? The Mustard Run? Come on, I’ll buy you a cold one.”

Eliot shakes his head. “His truck. He can’t make the meeting if he can’t start his truck.”

“Man, you really in a hurry to drive _back_? Come on, let’s do the Mustard Run. You know you love that one.”

Eliot does; he loves seeing the marks freak out when the condiments hit the expensive suits. Not that Stone will be wearing an expensive suit, not if this is where he spends his time, but he’s obviously as much a scumbag as most of their marks. He’s just too incompetent to make Nate’s list.

Eliot doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” Hardison says. “We drove all this way to spend five minutes in the parking lot? Fine. I hate this job, you know that? I hate _Oklahoma_.”

He pulls up Isaac Stone’s DMV info, trying to figure out which dusty old truck is his. Eliot clears his throat and nods toward an extremely blue classic Ford, clearly marked with the Stone Family Rigging and Pipeline logo.

“Right,” Hardison says. “One dead truck, coming right up.” He pulls out his multi-tool and fans out the wrenches, reluctant to leave the air conditioning.

“Just pull the distributor cap, Hardison. That’s a classic truck. Be a shame to ruin it.”

Eliot has a hand on his seat belt, fiddling with the clasp, but he hasn’t even unbuckled it yet.

“You aren’t going to help?”

“What, you want me to hold your hand? It doesn’t take two people.”

“Okay, what the hell’s going on, man? Why’d you come with me, anyway?”

Eliot looks almost…nervous, maybe? Or…guilty. He shifts again, then toys with his bracelet.

“Eliot? Hey, you okay?”

“Just get it done so we can get out of here,” Eliot growls.

Hardison nods, then pats Eliot’s arm for a second before hopping out of the truck. Whatever’s wrong, Eliot will have the whole ride back to spit it out. Or maybe they can stop for a beer after all, somewhere less depressing.

The idea of drinking in this particular bar is unappealing anyway, now that Hardison’s got a better look at it. He can hear crappy country blaring from somewhere, the place smells like old frying oil and spilled beer, and two of the trucks in the lot have confederate flag stickers on the bumper, one of them right next to the American flag, like that even makes sense. Eliot has a soft spot for dive bars with character, but this place is ugly and bland, and Eliot’s right not to want to get out of the truck.

Hardison wonders what Stone’s even doing out here. There are better places to drink and gamble closer to his house. There’s an actual race track. If Stone’s here, he’s probably meeting a bookie or a dealer or in some kind of shady mess.

Eliot must have put that together back at the hotel, which explains his presence and his questions, if not his mood.

Stealing a distributor cap isn’t a two-person job, but the lighting’s not good, and it’s awkward juggling the flashlight on his phone while trying not to get engine grease on it. Hardison hears a car door and pauses to glare plaintively at Eliot. Who is leaning against the van, arms crossed, watching the entrance to the bar with a tight unhappiness that sets Hardison’s teeth on edge.

He fumbles the multitool and drops it, then has to climb half under the stupid truck to find it, patting around the gravel and bits of trash and probably risking hepatitis.

Finally, after an embarrassing amount of fumbling and with no damn help from Eliot, he pockets the distributor cap and slams the trunk. Just in time to hear the crunch of boots on gravel, damn it.

Hardison peeks around the truck cautiously. The man in the cowboy hat could be anyone—Stone’s truck isn’t the only one in the lot, after all. But he knows even before the guy yells that he isn’t going to be that lucky.

“The hell’s going on here?” Stone demands, slipping a little on the gravel as he spots Hardison and speeds up.

Hardison holds his hands up and tries to look lost. “Hey, wait, this isn’t my car?”

Stone’s drunk enough to hesitate but belligerent enough to feel like a threat despite his age. Hardison tries not to let his gaze dart toward the van; Eliot likes to make an entrance, sometimes.

“Damn right it’s not your car,” Stone says, and then…stops.

“Hey, Pop,” Eliot says, stepping forward. His voice is soft; Hardison must have misheard him. He must have.

Eliot’s standing off to the side, drawing Stone’s attention away from Hardison and the van; Hardison can only see the side of his face, carefully blank.

Isaac Stone, though. Hardison has a great view of him. And Isaac Stone looks surprised. Annoyed. Not confused.

He recognizes Eliot.

Hardison reaches up slowly, trying not to attract attention, and pulls his earbud.

Stone tilts his head in an almost-familiar gesture, eyes narrowing as calculation replaces surprise. “Well, if ain’t the bad penny. Knew you’d turn up sooner or later.”

Eliot blinks and shifts his weight back like he’s been slapped. He scuffs the gravel with one toe, awkwardly.

“What’re you doing here, anyway?” Stone demands.

He doesn’t seem to expect Eliot to answer, and Eliot doesn’t.

“You think you can abandon your family and then just waltz back in and what? I’m supposed to hire you back? Well, bad news, boy. I’m all crewed up.”

“That why you’re selling off the excavators?”

“And what do you know about that?” Stone asks, taking a step toward Eliot. Eliot’s holding himself very still, arms at his sides. Hardison’s frozen too, not wanting to call attention to himself, although neither man has so much as glanced at him since Eliot first spoke. “You been spying on me, Jake? You better come clean. I ain’t too old to knock your ass through that windshield.”

Eliot flinches, and that is _not okay_. That is never supposed to happen, ever.

Hardison steps forward, putting himself clearly in Eliot’s line of sight. It’s supposed to draw Stone’s attention, or at least remind Eliot he’s a grown man and a trained fighter and he doesn’t have to listen to this. It doesn’t work. It just gives Hardison a better view of the horrified, hurt look on Eliot’s face, the way his lip trembles and then firms into a hard, angry line.

“You think I’m _Jake_?”

“What?” Stone blinks at him, as thrown by that as Hardison.

More, maybe, because when he speaks again the calculation’s gone from his voice, and it’s all anger. “The hell you playing at, Jake. That ain’t funny.”

“No,” Eliot agrees, voice flat. “It ain’t.”

He finally moves, stepping within an arm’s length of Stone. Hardison half reaches out to stop him—it feels too dangerous, somehow, like this old guy could really hurt _Eliot_. Which he can.

Which he _is_. An extra step closer isn’t going to make the difference.

“You don’t recognize me?” Eliot asks, almost too quiet for Hardison to hear the raw hurt in his voice. “Your own son?”

It’s Stone’s turn to stare. “Jake, you knock that off right now,” he says. “You shut your mouth with that before I have to shut it for you.”

This time Eliot doesn’t flinch. “You’re still bullying him,” he says, still in that soft tone. “That stops. Now.”

“This ain’t funny,” Stone says again. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you, boy. You walk out on me, you grow your hair out like a damn hippy, and now you’re pulling this horseshit?”

Eliot pulls off his hat and pushes his hair back.

“Show some _respect_ ,” Stone says, taking an unsteady step back, away from Eliot. “Ben was a damn idiot, and he went and got his dumb, stubborn ass killed, but he was still worth two of _you_ , Jake.”

 Eliot’s hands are a blur. In the space of a blink, he has Stone by the collar, pinning him to the side of the truck. Stone grabs at Eliot’s wrists, trying to pull himself loose, too drunk and too stunned to put up much of a fight.

Hardison guesses Jake wouldn’t have done that. He wonders if “Ben” ever did.

Eliot looks surprised at himself, anyway. He loosens his grip, then tightens it again, eyes wide.

The move brings their faces together, and Stone’s eyes widen. He stops fighting to get loose and puts one hand on Eliot’s face, tracing the faint little scar just below the hairline. Eliot doesn’t try to stop him.

“Ben?” Stone says.

Eliot nods. He doesn’t loosen his grip, but Hardison thinks maybe he’s forgotten to, like he seems to have forgotten that Hardison is right here _seeing_ this little reunion.

It’s not a good sign. Not that Hardison needs another red flag to know this is not a good situation.

“That’s impossible,” Stone says. “You died. They came to the house and told us. Hell, Ben, the government wrote me a damn check. Tax-free.”

Eliot shuts his eyes.

“You didn’t come home,” Stone says. “My boy would have come home.”

Eliot opens his eyes. “You told me not to.”

Stone huffs out a laugh. “Always were a stubborn cuss, weren’t you?”

Eliot’s mouth twitches, and Hardison can’t tell if it’s a smile or a grimace. He finally lets go of Stone, who leans back against the truck like he can’t balance on his own. Eliot straightens his father’s shirt, patting him down awkwardly.

“They came to the house,” Stone says again, shoving Eliot’s hand away. “Two of ’em. They said you—do you know what that was like for us? Did you ever stop to think what it’d be like, to lose…? What that did to your grandmom?”

“Pop,” Eliot says. “I…”

Stone looks up at the sky and shakes his head disbelievingly.

“If I thought this was real, I’d kill you myself.”

Eliot runs a hand through his hair.

“That bitch Rosa slipped something in my drink,” Stone says. “She drugged me. That’s what this is. You’re dead, and it’s just as well. Can’t pay it back.”

Hardison steps closer. His heart is pounding with rage. He can hear blood rushing through his ears.

Eliot just ducks his head.

“It’s Jake’s fault, you know,” Stone says. “Running off like that. Leaving a mess. At least you had the balls to tell me to my face. Your idiot brother just walked out, no word at all. Both my boys, abandoning the family business. At least you had guts. And you’d have come back, if you’d lived. We’d have been Stone and Sons, huh?”

“You ain’t Stone and _Son_ , though, huh,” Eliot says.

“He’ll be back,” Stone says. He closes one eye, peers at Eliot, then tries again with the other eye. “Shit. Dead 20 years and still taking his side. Even in my dreams, it’s two against one.”

“It didn’t have to be like that,” Eliot says. “You could’ve been on our side.”

Stone shakes his head and looks at the sky again, an exaggerated _why me_ written all over his face.

“You know this ain’t a dream,” Eliot says.

“’s gotta be a dream,” Stone says. “You would’ve come back. Maybe not for me. I said…I said some hard things, back then. Hard _truths_. I had to. It’s my job, looking out for you. But the pair of you…You’d have come back for Jake.”

Eliot flinches again.

Stone sees it. He reaches up again, ruffles Eliot’s hair, then cuffs him lightly on the ear. His hand rests on Eliot’s shoulder, and for just a moment, his face softens. Then he pulls his hand back fast, like Eliot’s burned him.

“No,” he says, stepping back. “Get away from me. _My son_ died. _You_ …You get out of here. It ain’t right, haunting me like this. It ain’t fair.”

Eliot hesitates.

“Get _out_!”

Eliot goes.

Hardison doesn’t know how Stone’s going to convince himself that the van—and Hardison—are part of his dream, and at the moment, he doesn’t much care. Eliot climbs into the passenger seat and buries his head in his hands, and Hardison can take a hint. He peels out of the lot in a spray of gravel.

Eliot’s breathing steadies as they turn on to the two-lane highway, but he doesn’t look up. Hardison lets the van slow a little below the limit; the team can manage without them a little longer.

After a minute, Eliot straightens up. He looks at Hardison, obviously bracing himself for questions.

Hardison does have questions. He also, by now, has an advanced degree in Eliot Studies. So he keeps his eyes forward, watching the road, and waits.

Eliot relaxes a little and turns to face the window.

Hardison spots a turnout ahead—some kind of historical marker—and hits the turn signal.

“The con,” Eliot objects.

“They don’t need us for this part,” Hardison says, hoping it’s true. Just because there’s no one for Eliot to hit on this doesn’t mean there’s nothing for him to hack. But hell, they can call his cell. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

Eliot frowns at the empty gravel of the turnout.

“Wait,” Hardison tells him. He clambers back over the seat and starts digging through Nate’s bag. Sure enough, Nathan Ford counts a large flask as a necessary item in an emergency. He uncaps it and takes a sip, grimacing a little, then offers it to Eliot.

Eliot raises the flask in a toast, then knocks back a shot, eyes half closing. He offers it back to Hardison, who shakes his head. Eliot slams the side of his fist against the door of the van, hard enough to rattle the windows and probably ding Hardison’s alias’ insurance. At least it’s not Lucille.

“That help?” Hardison asks. “Want to go start a bar fight?”

Eliot’s mouth twitches. “Maybe later.”

He leans back and takes a long pull off the flask.

“So,” Hardison says. “Ben?”

Eliot sighs.

“Not for a long time.” He blinks, counting something out in his head. “Been Eliot near as long as I was Ben, now.”

“Isaac and Jacob and…Ben? Shouldn’t it be Esau?”

A flicker of annoyance. Good.

“My mama never liked that story.”

“Fair enough,” Hardison says. “It’s not great.”

They sit and watch the twilight spread, passing Nate’s flask back and forth. Eliot slows down, after a while, or realizes Hardison’s just sipping—someone has to drive the van—and spins it between his hands, over and over. Hardison checks his phone and texts Parker that they’re running late. She sends an alligator emoji and a dancing lady emoji, which either means everything’s going to plan or that it’s really, really not.

“I need a favor,” Eliot says, eyes on the flask.

“I’m not going to say anything,” Hardison says.

Eliot looks up, surprised. “I know. That ain’t it. You hacked his accounts, before.”

“Just the statements,” Hardison says. “I didn’t go into the bank, but I could. You want me to…”

“Find out what he owes,” Eliot says stiffly. “I got a shell company could rent those excavators, but…I could use help setting it up.”

Eliot wants to bail his father out.

“He threatened you,” Hardison says. “I got to say, E. Doesn’t make me want to help the man.”

“He threatened _Jake_ ,” Eliot points out, like it’s supposed to be obvious that that’s worse. “Maybe I should have hit him, but… He’s _old_.”

He sounds genuinely surprised and a little bit offended; apparently time wasn’t supposed to move while Eliot’s back was turned.

“So,” Eliot says. “Can you do it?”

“You sure that’s what you want?”

“Those machines are worth a couple hundred grand _each_ , Hardison, even used. He’s giving Rios fire sale prices, probably ’cause he doesn’t want the bank to hear he’s selling them. And how’s he supposed to stay afloat once he gets the money, if he keeps selling off the capital? Huh? How’s he gonna get a contract if he doesn’t have the equipment? That ain’t no way to operate. Just…make sure it looks real, okay? No cutesy company names, no red flags. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Hardison says. “I can do that. Might take a day or two. But—”

“And don’t let him think it’s gonna be a regular thing,” Eliot adds. “No future contracts. Just a one-shot deal.”

“You don’t think he’s going to see through that?”

“No,” Eliot says confidently. “He believes in luck. And I’m dead, so he isn’t going to be thinking I’m helping him. Not if you do your job.”

“And…are you sure that’s how you want to handle this?” Hardison presses.

“He’s family,” Eliot says. “That company’s everything to him. I can’t let him lose it, Hardison.”

“You let him think you died,” Hardison points out, trying to sound nonjudgmental.

“Yeah. Well,” Eliot shrugs. He unscrews the flask and takes another drink. “That just kind of…happened. The Army thought I was dead, and by the time I could get back in contact, they’d already done the notification. Made me perfect for…never mind. They gave my family $100,000.”

 _Oh, Eliot,_ Hardison manages not to say.

“That’s a lot of money,” Eliot says defensively. “I thought they’d pay off the bank, and Jake could go to college. He should have.”

Hardison nods, because he’d have thought it was a lot of money too, before. Hell, till a couple of years ago, he’d have thought Eliot’s pop was rich _now_. He still kind of does, if he’s honest, but he’s learned a few things, working with the team, about the way people manage to draw wolves to their doors.

And about how money isn’t everything. Even in the bad years, when it was mystery casserole every night the week before the check came in and Nana taking portions so small they looked symbolic, he’d had more than Eliot: Nana wouldn’t have traded Hardison for a million dollars, or a billion.

“What about your brother?” he asks, not meaning it as a reproach, just…wanting to know Eliot had had _someone_.

“It wasn’t supposed to be forever,” Eliot growls, defensive.

“But you didn’t go back?”

“You heard. He told me not to,” Eliot says, and Hardison can hear the echo of the teenager Eliot had been. But Eliot hasn’t been that kid in a long time.

Hardison waits.

“I thought I’d be making a difference,” Eliot says. “And when I was done I’d come home and they’d see I was right to go. I’d have it all worked out.”

He huffs, shaking his head at his own mistake. “Join the Army, learn a trade, right? Well, I did. And they weren’t going to be proud of me.”

Hardison exhales, long and slow.

“Was I supposed to call? Or just show up?” Eliot asks. “You saw how that went, Hardison. And some things…I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t _fit_ there anymore, okay? I knew where I belonged, and it wasn’t _here_ , digging holes and working for my old man, maybe getting in a bar fight now and then. And Jake would see—Anyway. I changed, is all. Seemed like it might be best for everybody if they just kept thinking I died.”

“Eliot,” Hardison says, very carefully not touching him. “No.”

“Were you not listening, back there? Sure looked like you were.”

Hardison sighs. “Well, I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says. “We all are.”

“ _Thanks,_ man, that means a lot,” Eliot chirps, all brittle sarcasm. “Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Hardison agrees. “Family’s not just about blood, Eliot.”

Eliot looks like he wants to argue but can’t bring himself to tell a former foster kid that it doesn’t work like that. Especially since he knows damn well it does.

“They ain’t just blood,” is what he settles on. “Jake…”

“I could find him,” Hardison says.

Eliot considers that. Watching the wistful look on his face, Hardison has to firmly squelch an unexpected spurt of jealousy. Eliot is family, whatever he says, and they both know it. Eliot having a blood brother in his life isn’t going to make it any less true.

“Think what kind of cons we’d have to run, if Nate knew I had an identical twin,” Eliot says, smiling to himself. “But…no. Leave him be. Nothing’s changed.”

“It _has_ ,” Hardison tells him, grabbing Eliot’s arm hard enough to splash whiskey onto the seat. “You have. You’re not that man anymore.”

Eliot meets his eyes and nods.

“I ain’t the kid I was, either,” he says. “That kid is dead, or near enough. And Jake finally got out. He’s living his own life now. Last thing he needs is more family showing up on his doorstep. Especially not family that’s been lying to him all this time. That’s not the kind of thing he’d forgive. You think I’m stubborn? Jake’s the one can hold a grudge.”

“He’d want you back,” Hardison says, not really sure if it’s true. “I’d always want you back.”

Eliot clears his throat.

“You know you love me too,” Hardison tells him. “Come on, time to hug it out. Don’t go making that face, you know you want to.”

“Stop it, Hardison.” Eliot says, shoving him off _after_ he’s managed a halfway solid hug. “Get off me. What’s wrong with you?”

Hardison grins.

“Start the damn car,” Eliot tells him. Apparently sharing time is over. “And I’m telling Nate you stole his whiskey and spilled it all over the van.”

“Eliot!” Hardison puts a hand to his chest to show how wounded he is. “I thought we were _family_.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, sorry everyone. Popped back in to clean up some of the proofreading mistakes. Should have let this one sit a little longer before I posted so I could spot them better. If you saw anything like that that bugged you, feel free to point it out and I will fix it.


End file.
